


Catalepsy

by callmeflo



Series: a Mage's Bane [8]
Category: Moren-Ezen
Genre: Gen, Living Story, Magic, Scouting Training, Steppe Racing Training, scouting, warning for animal death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-25 04:35:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21810166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmeflo/pseuds/callmeflo
Summary: Every seller is advertising their stock as “future race winners”, and it’s working.
Series: a Mage's Bane [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1533155





	1. Catalepsy

_April 2nd_

_So my interpretation of that dream was a bit of a desperate reach - Madsie isn’t here. Kaetho is big and busy and a swarm of energy, and there’s certainly no shortage of horses, but my mare isn’t among them._

_The annual racing festival was hosted here last summer and the hype has yet to die down. Around me there are the necessary heavier Jibitas used for hauling carts and working, but even more are lanky and lean, fine boned and high strung, handled by all sorts of people._

_Every seller is advertising their stock as “future race winners”, and it’s working. The dream of winning the Grand Racer title and its accompanying valyut sack by galloping majestically across this accursed desert wasteland, never having to do a proper day’s work again, is apparently tempting enough to make everyone lose their heads and shell out thousands of savings and trade for any old nag._

_I bought the best I could sensibly afford, which wasn’t much: a young stallion spotted like dark constellations, healthy and sound, but not the most elegant looking - ponyish and unrefined. He’s broken in so he’ll do. I’ve cobbled together some leather reins and spent too much on a new bow and rations, so now I can survive some freelance scouting trips to start earning something back._

_With everyone prancing around trying to race, other jobs are easy to find: scouting the most abundant. It can be dangerous work on a good day - but I haven’t missed the whispers of magic that tell me there’ll be very few good days anytime soon._

_People are getting shifty and unsettled, rumours are running rampant. However, it’s not about a person caught performing a magical act, but the world itself. They have proof even, and I saw it last night with my own eyes: the skies lit up in purple and green, not with a sunset but in streaks of it writhing like a serpent’s coils above them - the lights of the north, which before now have always been an unknown anomaly of the Nether. Not seen past the snows, and certainly not this far south over the sands._

_No one knows what is going on, but it looks like it’ll be my job to find out._

✧

The stallion is rather unsettled by all the hubbub around them, dancing on his feet and trying to look at everything at once. He looks like he’s come from elsewhere with his rough, fluffy coat that better suits a Semtar bloodline than Kaetho, probably dragged here in the past week with a caravan of new stock, all hand picked for their skinny, athletic build. His body is all white except a splattering of solid black dots, so he’d certainly fit in with the snowy landscape.

But he’s in the badlands now, for better or worse. Chosen by Nawra Nazari for his strong, striped, unchipped hooves and clean, if short, cannons. He’s a bit wild eyed for her taste but so far hasn’t been stupid about it, not half as sensible as Madsie had always been but obedient enough despite the distractions.

The hand fashioned bridle she puts on him is just a thick rawhide rope for a bit that’s tied behind the chin, and reins hooked onto it. She can’t afford a saddle. She has no saddlebags nor the money to buy them, but also not enough belongings for it to be worth having them.

His unmindful wandering annoys her before long, so Nawra swings onto his back from the ground, easily as his withers is an inch or two shorter than Madsie’s, and hopes he’s a gentle ride. She has more control from his back and he responds to neck reining as if he’d learnt it long ago, which allows her to keep the reins loose enough to satisfy his curiosity. The stallion is well muscled under her thighs which she’s thankful for.

“Walk on, you scatty horse,” she mutters as he drifts once again, eyes locked upon a mare nearby. They meander their way through the throng of busy people and to the emptier outskirts, where Nawra had earlier recognised the sight of a nearly empty scouts’ tent.

The man there gives her a squinty eyed look when she dismounts and announces her return, but it’s not approving nor disapproving. She’s dusty from the travel and few days without fresh, natural water to bathe in, which makes her look scruffy but also proves she can handle the job. She stubbornly doesn’t allow her eyelids to droop with the bone deep exhaustion she’s been feeling for the last week, even as his eyes move away to inspect the spotted Jibita.

“Well, it’s better than walking, eh?” His speech is low and rough, muffled by his scraggly, greying beard. “It’s a long ride and not much fun once you get there. Still interested?”

Nawra nods confidently and rests her free hand deliberately on her new, expensive bow. “I’ve got all I need, I’m good for it. I’ve done work down by Isolon so I’m no wimp around magic,” she lies boldly, “and my last horse went from old age, not some fool scouting accident.”

“Alright, girl,” he demurs. He shuffles through the scrolls and scraps on the small, overflowing desk, choosing one in particular to hand over. “It’s out east, the old ruins known as Catatonia. Been some strange goings on over there, not that I much trust the words of these daft kids that come back with the stories, eh… It’s a week’s trip to get there. If you’re not heading back this way you can pick up your pay at Kestrana instead - in return for your report sent to me by bird. Us desert folk trade information as much as Jibita bloodlines.”

She mentally takes note of every scrap of information, nodding as he talks. Kestrana is the desert’s largest settlement and would likely have more to offer her - higher paid scouting jobs, for example. With some luck, maybe even some inspiration for a plan for the future.

The scrap of rough parchment he’d hands her is scratched with a charcoal drawing of the desert and badlands region, showing the land between Kaetho and Catatonia. It wouldn’t be a perfectly straight route if she wanted to avoid Stech Waters and the inlet beside it, but she could skirt around the worst of the badlands and not have to contend with the impossible terrain.

She raises her head and officially agrees to the job, and says a quick farewell that’s waved off with a gruff, “You stay safe now, girl.”

The stallion had stood reasonably politely during the exchange, so she gives him a pat as she remounts. He can feel her giddiness at the prospect of leaving the settlement and starts jogging again, jostling her seat and making her sigh tiredly. At least one of them had the energy for this.

✧

Before the trip is halfway done, she discovers just how much energy the little stallion has, and just how grateful she is for it.

He keeps up a swift lope across the dunes as asked, and once he gets to stretch out properly his stride becomes a gentle lull that is comfortable to sit to. His footing isn’t perfect on the deep sand but he learns quickly and soon enough Nawra doesn’t feel the need to worry, letting him pick his path as she always did with Madsie. He’s also easier going once they’re away from distractions.

Unlike her magebane mare though, he doesn’t have an endless reserve of endurance stockpiled in his sturdy little legs. She tries to trot uphill when she can afford the slower pace and detour to build the muscle and fitness. As he begins to huff and snort she’ll pull him up enough to rest, nudging him on at a less demanding pace to keep him warmed up, and every so often lets him halt and have a chance to roll.

These periods she spends tearing her knife into thick cacti for the water stored in their bodies, notching arrows to try for some desert cottontails and the odd jackalope, and picking through the rocky areas for hidden lizards and edible plants. When they stop for the night, nestling in any shelter they can find or out under the open stars if not, she sets snares for anything curious enough to come close to her campfire. She tries to look for Madsie in her dreams but gets nothing.

They are extremely lucky that the night stalker comes just past dawn, when they’ve not long set off.

They’re taking a slogging walk up an incline, the spotted stallion’s hooves sinking into the hill like it’s purposefully trying to drag them back down, and are just cresting the ridge when they see it - its sandy brown coat blending in with the sepia landscape but its silhouette unmistakable out in the open as they are. It’s the Jibita who tenses and raises his head first, alerting Nawra to the cat’s approach.

A hearty curse is said beneath her breath, and then, “Go, go - go - GO! Get on, Scatty, YA!” Her legs grip his barrel tightly, her hands winding into his mane for extra security, and she forces him forward as fast as he’ll go, straining to keep her seat and keep control through the breakneck speed of his bolt. The entire time she keeps up a constant murmuring of pleas.

Their descent from the dunes and banks are more like falling than a gallop, but the cat’s paws have no more traction on the grit than a horse’s hooves and so it slides down behind them. The stallion is frantic but blessedly listens to her steering. They dodge and dive until Nawra gets them closer to the badlands she’d been avoiding, where the ground becomes harder and more stable, turning their footsteps to thundering hoofbeats and scratching claws on the rock.

As soon as she can let go of the reins she does so, turning in her seat as much as she can and grappling with her bow until it’s poised ready. It’s nearly impossible at such a speed and rhythm, turned nearly 180 degrees with no stirrups to brace herself on, and her stance is nothing any trained archer would approve of. It will have to do.

The spotted stallion keeps galloping, his tail a white stream out behind them, legs so fast she can barely differentiate each of the four beats of the gait. They’re at an impossible speed and he’s only getting faster, swifter than a river’s current. Shadowcats are known to be fast and this one is almost fully grown and used to this territory but they’re ahead and the feline isn’t gaining on them. 

Maybe this horse is a racer after all. A diamond among a market full of sparkling duds and she landed him. The Jibita’s endurance won’t last forever, though. She’s been timing it by the sun and testing his limits these past few days and knows that time is almost up. She shakily draws back an arrow.

Miss.

Miss again. Another, another, another. Wasted arrows lost to the sand.

Finally one hits, spearing a shoulder and she can’t allow herself the respite but wants to tear up and pray. The night stalker stutters and roars angrily but keeps coming, its thick pelt not hindered enough by the injury.

One more - two - three -

By some grace of a God, Nawra hits the shadowcat right in the chest and it drops, flipping and skidding and then falling. She eases the stallion to a stop and spins him back, eyes never leaving the downed beast. He’s still wary and nervy but settles enough under her hands, and she gasps, “Good boy, good lad, well done now.” His legs are quivering and so are hers.

She dismounts, leaving the horse at a safe distance with a reassuring pat, and approaches the cat to kneel at its back. It’s thrashing a bit but bleeding well. Her knife is not steady in her shaking hands but it strikes true.

Finally, a sob tears from her throat and she falls back on her heels, bloody hands pressing to her face and coating it in macabre war paint, heart louder than the bird calls above them.

After a second she manages to look round to the white Jibita, his dotted sides heaving still but his head lowered as he inches toward his owner. This cheap horse she bought as a throwaway to fill Madsie’s absence, unwanted for his knobbly knees and turned out hinds, not pretty enough to be a grand champion. He’s carried her across half a desert and then outrun the most fierce predator of Moren Ezen.

“Well done, Scatty,” she whispers, “my future race winner.” She reaches out to brush her fingers against his velvety snout when he gets close enough, and then she bursts into hysterical laughter, drunk on adrenaline. 

“Good boy, Frascati.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nawra's new horse was born to race; she can't help but sneak a little training in on their travels.
> 
> Word Count(2160 WC), Horse + Rider(+2), Personal Work(+1) = 24EP for Nawra  
> Word Count(2160 WC), Horse + Rider(+2), Personal Work(+1), Horse Training(+1) = 25EP for Frascati


	2. Cataplexy

_ April 10th _

_ Frascati is so far more suited to racing desert cats than scouting, but I’ll teach him as we go and we’ll manage. Catatonia appeared on the horizon 6 days into the journey and got impossibly bigger with every mile further we travelled. It will take days to scout the entire place out, and more if I find anything of interest. _

_ It must have been a sprawling metropolis of a city once upon a time, teeming with people, and they’ve all left their marks here - though it’s largely hidden beneath sand now. Crumbling remains of buildings jut out from the dunes, shattered glass mixing with the grains and sparkling under the sunlight, rusted metal fingers looking ready to snap and disintegrate after sitting for so long. _

_ There’s something wonderful about the ruins of old cities, but also something so eerie. It’s difficult to decide which feeling is stronger. _

✧

The map the old scout recruiter had given her was probably drawn by the man himself, done in just minutes with a stubby chunk of charcoal on the first scrap of paper he’d found. It’s nothing like the treasured, high quality inked map she’d had before the accident, which had seen her through years of exploration and had the details to prove it. A new version is the first thing on her shopping list once she’s got the pay from this job.

Catatonia is obviously an ancient city, one of the huge, well populated places with buildings packed nearly on top of each other to accommodate the population and visitors. Even on the small map it’s marked as a large area, a few parts of note drawn properly amongst the general cross hatching that marks the boundary line. As they approach, it looms over them from high above, even in its half collapsed state. It must have been truly massive once.

There are no roads visible anymore, but patches of tarmac do show through the sand every now and then. Years of winds shifting the dunes have covered nearly everything at ground level, and more vicious sandstorms have built high banks up against some of the walls that remain standing. 

It’s not just the skeletons of buildings that reach out from their graves either, but smaller things too: metal roofs of automobiles surrounded by scattered glass shards, mirrors and warped door frames that’ll never fit back into their place. Rusted, worn sign posts and shattered lamps emerge from the sandbanks like leafless trees.

First, Nawra loops the edge of the city. It’s her preferred method if she’s able to do it, to get a sense of the size and layout from a safe distance, whilst keeping both eyes peeled for any sign of movement inside—be it from scavengers, bandits, or wild animals. 

It’s a learning experience for Frascati from the moment they first see the city. She opens up the tatty map and flips it upside down, laying it over the horse’s withers and neck. He shoots into a jog and tries to look round, unsure of the flapping paper threatening him from out of his line of sight, but settles with a little reassurance. Nawra makes sure to shuffle it about, scratching at the textured surface and lifting it higher above his head, and he’s soon acquiescent regarding its presence.

He may be a bit scatty, but he’s a quick learner.

The air is dusty and bitty out here in the desert expanse, turning Frascati’s shining white coat to a dull tan—reminiscent of Madsie’s dun colouring—so gradually she barely notices it happening. Her own face is protected by a loop of her sash, untied from her waist and fashioned into a scarf, but she can feel sand gathering in the creases of her trousers. This is not her favourite environment.

The Jibita’s striped seashell hooves sink almost fetlock deep into the thicker areas of sand, forcing him to lift his knees high and probably doing great for building his muscles up. Nawra directs him through the outskirts, between the half-buried signs, using every part of the ruins to map out what must’ve once been a road—she doesn’t want to chance walking over a rotten floor or hidden tunnel entrance and lose her horse down into its depths.

Once they reach the far side of the city, she can see the miraged coastline on the horizon, deep blue behind the golden landscape. It wouldn’t take long to canter over, but she’s got the meat from the shadowcat to keep her going—depending on how long this venture takes her, she makes a mental note to pick up some shoreline fish and crabs on the way out.

A difference she’s quickly noticing between Frascati and Madsie is their wariness. Mads had always been steadfast and brave, since that first time she stood up against the stares of a pack of plains raptors as a filly. Nawra could put her life in that mare’s hooves and she’d be kept safe, and their bond of trust had only grown with each year they worked together. Frascati, on the other hand, is more cautious, always alert and on his toes. His upbringing must have been wildly different to Madsie’s, and though she’ll never know, she suspects he was caught right off the northern steppe.

But it doesn’t mean she isn’t safe with him—it’s just in a different way, and one exceedingly useful during scouting trips.

It’s his vigilance now that warns her of the dune dog pack, some 13 members strong, skulking silently about the disintegrated remains of a hotel building to their right. They use the many stories as high ground for good vantage points, and the gaping holes in the old walls create many overlooks for the wild dogs to watch from. Several gaze down right into Nawra’s eyes as she passes, and she determinedly keeps eye contact with the highest one, even whilst patting at her Jibita’s quivering neck. 

So focused on the buildings toward the inner city, she’d overlooked the paw prints in the dust right on their path. 

Dune dogs aren’t too much of a danger if you avoid provoking them: ideally, keep out of their territory. The eye contact and lack of running away will keep them from attempting a hunt, but there’s always a chance a group will follow trespassers out of the area. 

Only one does. A young male, his stunning silky bronze fur swaying as he ambles along fifty metres back, eyes fixed in their direction. Nawra doesn’t worry and her calmness settles Scatty too. She finds herself smiling as the dog steadily falls behind and then turns back—how funny, that even wild animals have scouts in their communities.

The pair round the northern edge away from the dogs’ domain, her starting point finally within view and her makeshift map thoroughly more filled out than before, Nawra takes a last glance over the paper before folding it and stashing it in her shoulder satchel. Night is drawing in, and it comes so quickly in the desert—the day is lit up by the sunlight reflecting off the crystals of sand, so its absence is even more stark at dusk. The stars above them glitter against the dark purple expanse.

She swings a leg over Frascati’s rump and dismounts on the move, collecting the improvised reins and leading her mount toward where the pavement once was. There’s a mostly still standing building just nearby, only one floor with the other stories long since fallen, but there’s enough of a solid looking ceiling to be something of a shelter if a storm passes over. The spotted stallion follows her happily, stepping past the rubble and surprisingly sure footed on the uneven concrete.

The desert here isn’t completely barren of all but cacti: there must’ve been an irrigation and plumbing system set up to provide fresh drinking water to the city, the pipes probably rusted down into scrap metal by now, but it had watered the ground enough to allow some growth long ago. Left among the broken bricks and metal gravestones are dry, twisted trees and the occasional hardy shrub, and patches of more natural desert flora making the most of the available water. 

Nawra collects an armful of branches and woody stalks and manages to spark a campfire to life. The nightstalker is chewy but edible, and Frascati makes do on a handful of oats and then wanders off to graze on brown grasses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they’ve reached Catatonia and Frascati gets a last minute scouting lesson. and thus the living story begins!
> 
> Word Count(1406 WC), Horse + Rider(+2), Personal Work(+1) = 17EP for Nawra  
> Word Count(1406 WC), Horse + Rider(+2), Personal Work(+1), Horse Training(+1) = 18EP for Frascati


End file.
